


than to be fed by anyone else

by Red



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Caning, Canon Disabled Character, Dom Charles, Dom/sub, M/M, Remix, Sub Erik, Subspace, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4787795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not every time that Charles can bring Erik under, but breaking him down is such a joy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	than to be fed by anyone else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SharpestScalpel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestScalpel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [You May Eat Me If You Like](https://archiveofourown.org/works/399438) by [SharpestScalpel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestScalpel/pseuds/SharpestScalpel). 



> Thank you to Asya and Afrocurl for the editing, and to SharpestScalpel for the original fic!

5 

Erik knows all too well how to take pain. 

That isn’t the point of the exercise. 

Bringing his arm back, Charles swings once more; the cane sings through the air before he pulls short of his mark, and Erik writhes as if he’d been struck. 

They’ve done this long enough that Erik, too, knows it’s not about _taking_ the pain. It’s not how well he can escape from it, it isn’t how little this--the cane cracking hard now over the lovely, line-marked curve of his arse--is in comparison to all Erik’s suffered, before. 

The marks the cane leaves are pleasing, orderly: sharp lines that start out pink and welt up quick, that can linger, transform into the bruises Erik will wear for days. 

Pain isn’t the end, but it is so often the means. 

Erik doesn’t avoid it, he doesn’t divide self from body. His consciousness sinks into the pain, deeper and deeper, bleeding down toward that still pool in his mind. 

The touch Charles keeps on his thoughts is a light one. The sensation is peculiar, and Charles wants nothing more than to give it to Erik--to drive him toward that rare tranquility--but it isn’t his to experience. 

Letting the cane whistle again through the air, Charles feels his own pulse, the thrum of exertion in his arms, the warmth in his chest, and Erik arches his back and moans again. 

Effective though it may be, the cane is at times fickle.

Charles thinks, next time, he’ll insist on using the hairbrush. 

“Erik,” he says, darkness coiling tight in his stomach. He pets over the long, twitching muscles of Erik’s back, the cane forgotten on the floor. “Erik, come back, my love. You’re bleeding.” 

Disgusted with himself, he holds Erik’s body, and tries to ignore the swell of his disappointment. 

 

4

Metal, Erik has a fondness for: the bright lure of clamps, the singing of a dildo or sound he’s fashioned himself, the peculiar shivery fire of a wheel. 

The cuffs, too, Charles bought to give pleasure--tight on Erik’s wrists, they’re less forgiving than the restriction of ties, and Charles expects nothing less than Erik’s complete rapture. 

And he is glorious as he stays obediently bound. A well-trained animal, some wild creature Charles found, and captured, and shackled to his chair. 

Erik’s head is tipped back, sweat pooling on his collarbone. Charles watches, lets his fingernails bite into Erik’s thighs. He feels the strain in Erik’s muscles, fucking himself in the rhythm Charles demands. He soaks in the spiral of Erik’s thoughts, desperation and pride and satisfaction, and he tells him everything he wants to hear. 

_This is what you’re good for, isn’t it? Trying to make me come? Waiting for it? Might be ages, but it’s nice, isn’t it? Working for my come?_

Times like this, Erik won’t say a word. He’ll swallow back sounds, his breath coming harsh. He’ll blush, and moan loud when Charles calls him some name--slut, or whore, or pet--and he’ll keep working for it, taking Charles’s prick. 

If the metal’s too cheap, if the alloy grates on Erik’s senses... Charles smiles, slapping Erik’s inner thighs hard, feeling him clench. If Erik can’t ignore the cuffs, that’s his concern. He needs to learn control, to be trained, to learn to find pleasure in serving. 

Charles senses it, the moment he tips over and accepts. Erik isn’t going to get what he wants, not tonight, but now this is enough. 

«You’re mine, that’s it,» he sends, and Erik sighs, the cuffs clattering as he moves.

Being Charles’s should be enough, and Charles whispers his praise. 

 

3.

Erik waiting, untouched and hard, is a singular joy. 

If it weren’t his principal means of punishment, Charles should ask for it more. 

Charles reaches down to lift his leg, making sure Erik has a good view, before leaning back to angle the vibrator deeper. 

“What have you learned, my darling?” Charles asks. His voice is shaking, but who can help that? The vibrator is medical-grade, ridiculously strong, slick with lube and Erik’s spit. 

Standing at the foot of the bed, Erik is very still, coiled with tension. He’s holding position to the letter, but not the spirit: legs slightly apart, hands at his sides, palms open and facing Charles. It’s supposed to be exposed, unguarded, but there’s nothing in Erik’s riotous mind that speaks of submission. 

He knows what Erik wants: to be right, to be strong for the cause. He collapsed in the Danger Room because he thought he was serving a purpose. 

He thought he was being good.

“Tell me,” Charles insists, “ _have_ you learned anything?” 

There is nothing Erik wants more, Charles has seen--had seen, threaded throughout the bright and dark of his mind, the moment they first met--than to be good.

The moment Erik realizes, it crashes through his mind beautifully. It’s a surrendering of will that makes him relax, all at once, fully into position. 

“That you will care for me,” Erik breathes, “Even when I will not care for myself.” 

Charles lets it seep over, all his love and possession and protectiveness, into the waiting stillness of Erik’s thoughts. 

“That’s right,” Charles says, panting as keeps fucking himself, “Good.” 

After, he allows Erik to clean him up, to lick the come from his skin and take Charles’s soft prick in his mouth as he’s petted. 

There is always a reward, Charles reminds him, for good behavior.

 

2\. 

If placing Erik in cuffs is an exercise in Erik’s control, the ropes are an exercise in Charles’s own. 

It’s an art, like so much of what they do together. The forms he can create, the poses Erik will hold for him, the feel of rough hemp between his hands--even after, he’ll see the ghosts of what he’s done, impressions of the knots left in Erik’s flesh. 

He coils the rope around Erik’s arms, pinning them together, high behind his back. Erik is still and calm, kneeling before him. His thighs were lashed together as he stood, and he’d gone to his knees so easily, and Charles basks in the depth of his submission.

“I want you to concentrate on your breathing, darling.”

The position he’s tying Erik into, it’s not easy, but Erik breathes into it. He relaxes, letting Charles pull his arms back, hold his shoulders strained. His mind eases, light and soft, downward. 

_I want him to own me,_ Erik thinks, a bubble of consciousness floating to the surface. Charles sighs, letting the words run through him, coiling the rope again as he feels Erik sink and focus--as Charles had ordered--on his breath. 

In and out, in and out, and then the shift is wrenchingly abrupt. 

As if the bubble popped, letting out something toxic and strange, Erik is hyperventilating. 

He can’t speak, Charles realizes. He can barely breathe, and Charles has the shears in hand and Erik out in a moment. 

But as the ropes fall away, it’s almost worse. Erik jerks away from him, sobbing and fighting to escape. He’s wild, coltish in his panic, and Charles grips him and pulls him close. 

For a moment, Erik struggles. But Charles isn’t so weak as people seem keen to believe, and Erik is uncoordinated and clumsy and easily held. 

“Hush, love,” he says, soft against Erik’s ear, surrounding him with body and mind. “I have you. I’ve got you, and I won’t let go,” and he’s not sure, sometimes, if that’s a promise or a threat. 

 

1\. 

Sometimes, when he looks at Erik, it will terrify him. 

At dinner, they use the long banquet tables that once haunted his childhood. But every night, now, they’re full, the table crowded and noisy with students and faculty alike, close enough to bump elbows. 

Erik sits down the table from him, and on the opposite side. Not close enough to touch, not even enough to pass food--

_though how Charles hungers for it, to hold even that over Erik, to keep him hand-fed like an animal in training_

\--and sometimes, when he looks at Erik, he wants more than he can have. 

He always tries to look away, before Erik can notice. 

The fact is, it’s never more than what he _could_ have. He could take everything, he could break Erik utterly, make him do anything--

_curl like a dog, by the wheels of his chair, here at the dinner table_

_to strip himself down, to lie on the butcherblock in the kitchen, an offering_

\--anything at all. 

Erik meets his eyes, just long enough to see Charles’s hunger, before he drops his gaze. 

His eyelashes are so long, he’s such a rare, delicate gift. 

Charles could take anything from him, and Erik knows. Erik has seen it--knows why Charles refuses to draw blood, how Charles always wants for so much more of Erik than he ever should take--and he offers himself, all the same. 

Flustered, Charles stabs at his asparagus. Like Erik, he knows. 

It isn’t a gift, unless given freely.

 

+1. 

Coated in come, his cock soft and vulnerable between his thighs--this is how Erik is meant to be. 

He’s happy, Charles notices, all laziness and contentment once he’s got Charles off and Charles has permitted him the same. A stray thought wanders through Erik’s mind, something half-formed about needing to wash up. 

Charles considers batting it aside, but doesn’t. 

Erik’s permitted a few choices. Nothing is ever tamed completely, Charles thinks, and it would be a shame to break him trying. He pets Erik’s hair, and waits for him to leave. 

To his surprise, Erik just murmurs softly, and burrows his face against Charles’s neck. 

It’s sweet, and shy, and so gentle that Charles feels his heart break for Erik, all over again. 

“It’s okay, darling,” he purrs, tightening his hand in Erik’s hair. He yanks hard, and Erik tugs against his grip, chasing the pain. “There we are. You’re so very good, my love.” 

Erik’s thoughts churn, and Charles brushes sweat-damp hair from his brow with his left hand, and pulls again with the right. 

And then Erik’s dropping and he’s _there_. Charles skims the surface of that deep pool before retreating. 

That’s Erik’s, and this--the rise and fall of Erik’s breath, the kick of his heart, the stillness of his body--all this is his.


End file.
